Emma, a blonde, and James, a darkhaired man, adore each other. Two years after their wedding they welcome a daughter. The birth is difficult; the baby gets tangled in the umbilical cord and cannot be delivered straight away. Right after the birth the anaesthetist steps in to give the newborn a burst of extra oxygen. Emma is moved to a recovery ward and only sees her child ten hours later. When she finally looks at the little one, she freezes in amazement.
The nurse hands her the wrapped infant, places the baby on a tray and slowly unfolds the swaddle. On the tray lies a tiny, gingerhaired girl with unusually long, curly locks.
Are you sure this is our baby? Emma asks, voice trembling.
The nurse smiles. Im absolutely certain. Mothers take their babies straight to the ward, and yours was the only one that spent time in the hyperbaric chamber. And, by the way, your husband must be just as redhaired, she says, then disappears down the corridor.
Emma watches the child, still unable to believe her eyes. The baby begins to squirm, searching the air for her mothers breast, and lets out a loud wail that echoes through the whole ward. Emma clumsily tries to swaddle her, but the cries only grow louder until the infant finally settles when Emma presses her close to her chest.
When James arrives to take the girls home, he looks at the newborn with the same bewildered expression but says nothing.
Back at their flat in Camden, they start tracing their family trees, calling relatives and digging through old photo albums. They discover that Jamess greatgreatgrandmother on his fathers side was a brightred, curlyhaired Polish woman, after whom no other redhead was born in the familyonly darkhaired descendants like James himself.
After the first washing, when Emma towels the baby dry and lifts her into her arms, James looks at the infant and exclaims, She looks like a May dandelion! Though they had already chosen the name Alice, the little one ends up being called Poppy, and the parents affectionately nickname her Dandelion.
Poppy grows into a cheerful child. Neighbours call her GiggleBug, and she only cries when theres a clear reason. At four years old, the first freckles appear on her nose.
Mum, what are those? she asks innocently.
Theyre freckles, Emma replies, smiling as she plants a kiss on Poppys cheek. Angels have them, and the more you have, the more people youre meant to help. She says this without realizing that Poppy will take the words to heart for the rest of her life.
In the sandpit, if another child begins to sob, Poppy drops her sand castles, runs over, strokes the crying childs hair and whispers soothing words. The child instantly calms, and Poppy becomes convinced she truly is an angel.
When a younger sibling spots her large doll and starts wailing for the same toy, Poppy rushes over and hands over her beloved doll. When she later returns home, the doll is back where it belongs, though she never learns the effort Emma and the other mother put into persuading the shopkeeper, buying icecream and coaxing the doll back. Poppy simply believes this is how angels behave.
In Year 5, as she walks home from school, she sees an elderly man on the pavement tripping over his untied shoes. He leans down to tie them, and at the same moment a boy on the fifth floor leans out of his flat, elbowing a large pot of ficus that teeters over the balcony. The pot hurtles down. Before anyone can shout, Poppy darts to the old man and pushes him hard enough to keep him from being struck. The pot crashes onto the spot where the man was kneeling, shattering into pieces.
The man, stunned, bursts into grateful tears. Little one, youve saved me from certain death, he says, his voice shaking. The experience cements Poppys belief that she was born an angel.
Each spring more freckles pepper her nose. One morning she stands before the mirror, admiring her bright red curls, big blue eyes, rosy lips and the fresh constellation of spots on her nose.
Mother, where will I find all the people who need my help? she asks, forgetting the warning she heard years ago.
Emma, taken aback, replies, What do you mean, love? I dont understand.
Poppy points to her nose. Look at all these freckles. They keep multiplying every year. Doesnt that mean more people are waiting for me?
Emma tries to explain, Your freckles are just sunshine kisses, darling. Each new one is a kiss from the sun.
Poppy insists, Maybe the sun kisses me, but you told me Im an angel and every freckle means a person I must help!
Emma remembers what she said when the first freckles appeared, looks at her daughter with awe, pulls her into a tight hug and whispers, My little dandelion, you really are an angel. She kisses the top of Poppys head.
As a teenager, Poppy never lets an elderly neighbour cross the road alone, carries their shopping bags home even if they live far away, and often slips into the supermarket to buy icecream and chocolate for a frazzled older lady deciding between milk or butter, refusing the treats for herself.
One rainy afternoon she walks down the high street when a stylish woman in a designer coat, trailing a faint perfume, passes her and heads toward a sleek Lexus. Poppy, intrigued, hesitates before approaching. As the womans car beeps and the drivers door opens, Poppy, somehow emboldened, grabs the womans sleeve.
What do you think youre doing, young lady? the woman snaps.
Sorry! Im sorry! Poppy stammers, I just wanted to ask about that wonderful scent youre wearing.
Before she can finish, screeching brakes and a deafening crash fill the air. A drunk driver loses control, slamming into the womans car. Metal crumples, the steering wheel twists, and the drivers seat flies into the passenger side.
The woman, shaking, clutches Poppy and whispers, Youre an angel. Youre my angel.
Years later, in deep autumn, a light drizzle turns to snow. Poppy, bundled in a hat with pompoms, hides her hair under it and stands at a tube station, debating whether to take the bus or the train. A voice behind her asks, Excuse me, could you tell me how to get to Willow Lane?
She turns and sees a young man with bright ginger curls, damp from the weather, his freckles glowing like spring flowers despite the chill, and brown eyes twinkling.
She erupts into laughter, her hat flying off. He looks bewildered, then joins in, both laughing under the misty rain.
Two years later they welcome a curlyhaired, redcheeked babyanother little dandelion, another angel. When the boy turns four, he asks, Mum, what are these spots on my nose?
Poppy smiles and answers, Those are freckles. Angels have them, and the more you have, the more people youre meant to help.
